


don't look back when you walk away

by louisaeve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/F, Incest, Sibling Incest, implied sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisaeve/pseuds/louisaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is returned to England, to the place where her dreams turned into nightmares and she forgot how the birds sung. They can summon her, they can bring her to the castle like a mere dog, but they always, always, forget she is a wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't look back when you walk away

**Author's Note:**

> Creative license has been taken and heed the warnings in the tags.

Sansa swallows. The last time she had painted on a face so carefully it had been as Queen to be, painting over bruises. Back then, she'd smeared nearly half a bottle of the French stuff over her eye, painted her lips a pale pink, eyes drawn on in simple browns. She'd been nothing but the daughter of the Lord Stark, regent of Ireland, whose brother, now their father was dead, had waged a resistance, a war against England, against the monarchy. 

Then she calms her screwed up face, smooths out the wrinkles that reside, and looks in the mirror. She sweeps a layer of liquid foundation on, smoothing her face out into a canvas. She dabs powder onto it, taking away the shine. Next, she blushes her cheeks; not the small rosebud circles of her youth, but now she turns to long sweeps along her cheeks. Her brown kohl pencil lines all the way around her eyes perfectly, and she picks a light brown shadow to smooth across her lid. Mascara is smoothed over her lashes, drawing them long and thick and dark brown. She picks up a tube of lipstick, smiling when she sees the name. Frosted Raspberries. She paints over her smile, rubs her lips together and pops them, the smacking sound filling her empty room. 

Sansa's glad it's empty. She's glad she doesn't have to put up with the stress and flutter of the maids, these glittering bright English girls, raised in the warmth of the country, or those raised in the city and its cool, with coats from Burberry and the like. 

She remembers the times she had nothing to wrap around her shoulders but old blankets, the few kindnesses she was spared. They were few and far between, and Sansa shivers, the weight of all of her triumphs and sorrows on her shoulders. 

Sansa takes a deep breath and slides her dressing gown off. 

The silken fabric falls to the floor, a grey crescent around her feet. The bruises that once dotted her body; fingerprints, buckle marks fists and the like, are saved for another girl, someplace else. Sansa shudders to think of it, and so pushes the thoughts from her mind. Today she does not have the luxury of thinking such things. Instead, she paces to her wardrobe in only her underwear, having checked to make sure the window was shut, and opens the french doors. Browsing through her options, she finally selects a shift dress in turquoise, and pulls it out. Once upon a time she would of asked help to get into it, but now, she slides into the dress, lets the silken lining caress her pale, sheltered shoulders, and only pauses to think that if the dress was ruined, it would make quite an impression to wear out anyway. The thought brings a smile to her face - the Lady Stark of Winterfell, og Ireland, showing no caring for the authority of the Crown. 

It doesn't get ruined of course. Years in court life have taught her as much as getting into a dress, although the court itself taught her little else. Sansa smiles at that thought. 

Her feet slide into nude heels, and she combs her hair and twists it up into an elegant knot, the type her mother favoured, once long ago, in a land of snow and hot chocolate in the eternal winter. A sad smile falls onto her face, and she looks away from her reflection, fastens a string of big pearls around her neck, and one in each of her ears. 

A knock sounds on the door. "Lady San-"

The guard is cut off, because Arya Stark stalks through the door, scowl in place as ever. 

She doesn't fit in, looks the opposite of Sansa. Arya's got no curves, and is slim and short - petite - compared to her elder sister, who is tall and has the curves of a well fed woman. Arya's in black jeans, a black top and a black leather jacket. She looks the picture of a wealthy rebellious teenage girl with her short hair; that is she would if not for the gun balanced on her hip, and the glints of silver over her body which symbolise the knives hiding there. 

None of the tabloids have ever forgotten how the youngest Stark girl was found living not the streets of Paris, a knife in her bloody hand, eyes glinting and hair filthy. No one will ever forget. And even today, the Stark girl unnerves most people. Except for Lady Sansa of course. 

"You couldn't wait?" The Lady in question asks, raising a brow. "I do have a guard for a reason." 

"And I stay in these chambers with you until the end," Arya raises a brow right back, and stares her down. "I came to check on you. You've been a while. And you weren't answering my texts." 

Sansa looks with a guilt like her old self at the black box which is sitting on her bed, turned off. Fixing her earring, she stalks over to her bed and bends down, turning it on. Emails and texts pop up. Many are from Arya, but there are some from Jon, her cousin in the North, who is watching over the borders, and others still from her brother Bran, who has a way with numbers that keeps her lands safe. She sighs, and lets the exhale wash out the rest of her worries. 

"I apologise," her voce is clear, regal. It isn't the voice reserved for nights in Winterfell with all of her family, all of her friends around her, whispering of things a long time gone and laughing and playing board games. Her game face is on, and Arya knows that as well, because she nods, and for once is practical enough that her face is calmed, and she looks at her elder sister as Lady Stark, the one she is sworn to protect. 

"It's time to go," Arya states. 

"Yes," Sansa nods firmly, and at once wishes she'd chosen a longer dress, one that she can sweep in, one that demands attention. But she remembers that the fabric clinging to her legs is only another layer between them and her, and she pushes herself to remember that they are the ones who ought to be wanting for a new layer between them and Ireland. Sansa finds herself led out, and lets her face become the mask; much like the masks she once saw being sold downtown in London, painted on to look severe. 

And she glides out the door, in a way she had known once upon another time. 

Arya waits by her side, but as Sansa stalks along the hallways, towering and intimidating, she does not need her, does not need her for once. Those who are late to the . . . meeting - is that what they call it now? Well, those mull around the hallways, whisper to one another, about the Stark girls who cannot bear to be separated from one another, who sleep in the same bed like children (like lovers). They see the wildness within, the girls that worship the old gods, the gods of the rivers and seas and do not fit within the boundaries of the cross land. 

The audience that is taking place - perhaps that is the best word for it - requires the announcement of any one who enters the Great Hall of the castle, but Sansa stalks past the guard whose duty is to announce, and straight up to the Queen. 

She knows what an impression she makes - the Winter Lady, raised from ashes and smoke and bones, she knows what they call her. She is Wolf Girl, Wolf Woman, the Kingkiller, the Steel Lady, the Northern 'Maiden', the Northern Whore, the Lady of Winterfell, the Ghost of Winterfell, the Queen of the North. 

And the last one reminds her of everything she was in a land far away and everything she was in this foreign land years ago and everything she wants to be known for in all the lands. So she fixes a smile on her face, arches a brow, does not kneel, and looks the Dragon Queen in the eye. 

"Good afternoon."

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, Ireland is a Catholic country, but for all intents and purposes, I referenced the old gods they had à la Elizabethan era. In this fic, Ireland is also still resistant, and it's similar to ASOIAF type monarchy, not modern royalty. Also, Ireland/ England are going through quite a lot of civil wars etc, although those have passed mostly. if you have any more questions do not hesitate to ask, and please let me know what you think :)


End file.
